At Long Last: Parts I and II
by Treva Rea
Summary: Sam thought she was doomed to love from a distance. Then one night, she finds love, up close and personal. Rating changed to M.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Again, thanks to two of my betas: Em and dances above.

This story started many months ago but if not for emma de los nardos, it would never be finished.

Summary: Sam thought she was doomed to love from a distance. Then one night, she finds love, up close and personal.

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><p>It was early morning. The sun was shining and a light cool breeze ruffled the sheer curtains. Birds were chirping outside, welcoming the new day, and small sounds of activity by neighbors preparing to leave for work filtered in through the windows. Except for a slight headache forming, Samantha Stewart, curled up on her left side, was as comfortable as if she were in her own bed at her parents' home. She stretched languidly, relishing the tingling feeling of flexing and contracting muscles. Afterwards, she brought her feet back up and was startled when they touched bare skin—a bit hairy, but bare skin nonetheless. It was then that she realized she also was quite naked, sans pajamas and panties. Holding the sheet to her bare breasts, she looked behind her to find another body, also somewhat bare, lying next to her but facing the other way. Still, she'd know that curly greying hair anywhere; she'd certainly studied it enough times through the past six years.<p>

_What had she… _they_ done? Ooh… now what? Should I wake him?_

If she didn't immediately remember what had happened the night before, would he? She recalled being at a gala, a ball, for the recognition of police officers who stayed at home during the war to protect the home front not only from the Germans, but from those who would take advantage of the war to carry out their own nefarious designs. Ms. Pierce had invited her. Because of Sam's service in the MTC and as a police officer's driver during the war, she would be as welcome as any of the police officers. She was now working at Whitehall in a secretarial position—well, more in the role of personal assistant to Ms. Pierce, who had been promoted to a position of oversight of field agents.

She went to the gala, but without an escort. A peripheral advantage of the end of the war was the relative abundance of women's clothing again. With her first month's pay at Whitehall, Sam had bought herself a number of new frocks. Last night she'd worn a shimmery lavender dress with a fine white cardigan draped over her shoulders. She knew that she looked stunning, from the glances she had given herself in the mirror at her flat, but she still felt odd attending the gala all alone. She felt odd, that is, until two blue eyes met her brown ones from across the room. She hadn't expected him to be there; the last she'd heard he was still in America. And the last he had heard, she was going to be married. She hadn't done, but he wouldn't know that.

He'd made his way across the room to her (albeit slowly as friends of his stopped to welcome him home and to the party). When he finally stood in front of her, she realized she was standing alone; Ms. Pierce had left her side. At the time, it hadn't registered, but in retrospect it felt a bit as if she'd been set up.

"Sam."

"Sir."

"You know, I'm not your boss anymore." He grinned at her and she grinned back.

Somewhat shyly, she said, "Old habit."

"I didn't know you'd be here."

"Ms. Pierce thought I should be, since I did work so closely with the police."

"I didn't realize you knew Ms. Pierce."

"I didn't know her before, not really. Just through association with you."

"Mmm… so she just invited you out of the blue?"

"No. She, well, she knew of me through you and had heard I was looking for a job. With her promotion, she found she needed a personal assistant."

She'd seen that look on his face dozens of times in the past. He was struggling to put the pieces together; something was missing and he'd not yet figured it out. But she knew he would. It would take a moment maybe, but the question would be forthcoming. She stared out at the dance floor, where the last song had just ended and a waltz was starting. Just as a young officer was making his way over to her, Foyle asked her to dance, holding his hand out for her, which she readily took.

She'd never seen him dance in all the seven years she'd known him. She wasn't disappointed. Waltzing with him would forever be a pleasure she'd not want to pass up. As they made their first turn, he finally asked the question she'd been waiting for him to figure out.

"Since you were in need of work, am I to understand that you and Adam are not married?"

"Yes. He—_we_ broke off the engagement a few weeks after you'd left."

"I'm surprised, Sam. I thought you were happy with him."

"I thought so, too."

She didn't elaborate, leaving Foyle again to wonder why. Sam watched his face, the furrow of his brow and his characteristic biting of his cheek.

"You didn't love him."

"No," she sighed. "And he found it out."

"So, he broke off the engagement?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, Sam. I really did think…" He realized he was about to repeat himself.

"I was, but it wasn't going to be enough that I was content to be with him. At least… not for him."

Foyle stopped dancing rather abruptly in the middle of the song. Another couple nearly careened into the two of them. He grasped her elbow and led her off the dance floor. Glancing both ways, he found an open terrace doorway and again led her to it and into the cool night air. She wasn't sure what to expect, but his huff of exasperation was something she should have anticipated.

"Why would he think you were only _content_ to be with him?"

Sam didn't answer straight away. She couldn't just blurt out that she was in love with her former boss and always would be; that he was the only person she felt she could ever love.

"Sam?"

She didn't know how to answer him. The question was rather direct and she knew he expected a direct answer. "I…he…" Frustrated, she turned away from Foyle and placed her hands on the balustrade.

"I thought I'd come back from America and find you happily married," Foyle said, then mumbled, "I counted on it."

She only heard that last because he was facing her, it was said so low that if he'd been facing the other way, she'd never have heard it.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

He looked startled, and it confirmed for her that she wasn't meant to hear his muttered statement. But he didn't answer. Instead, he did what she'd done, placing his hands on the balustrade. She took a chance.

"Adam thought I was… _am_ in love with someone else."

Foyle had been holding his breath, but at her words, he exhaled slowly. "Who is he?"

He wasn't asking if Adam was correct about Sam being in love with someone else; he knew _that_ answer.

Swallowing, she ducked her head and said quietly, "_You_."

He didn't move, he didn't say anything. Neither of them did, until another couple came out onto the terrace.

He cleared his throat and nodded to their left. "Let's walk a little."

They'd walked only a few paces when he said, "Sam, I'm old enough to be your father."

"Yes, but you're not." Her tone flat, she didn't raise her voice. "You didn't answer my question."

He harrumphed and stopped. She'd walked a few steps further, not realizing at first that he had stopped. She turned to face him. Screwing up her courage, she lifted her chin and said, "You've never held back from correcting me before, _sir_. So, am I correct in assuming that you meant that if I were married you'd be less inclined to… to… to have feelings for me? Romantic feelings?"

Now he felt like the proverbial deer in the headlights. She'd guessed correctly and he couldn't start lying to her now. But he also couldn't answer her, so he nodded. She turned from him and took a few steps, her hands now clenched at her sides.

"Sam?"

"How long?"

He didn't answer.

She turned back to him, hands still balled. "How long have you felt… that way toward me?"

"I don't know. I started to realize it when you took ill from the Anthrax, but I'd started developing feelings for you when you stayed in my home."

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words formed, just stammering. "That long?" she finally managed to gasp out. It had been nearly five years ago. They had worked together nearly every day since, until the war ended and he'd traveled to America. She'd then gone to work in London. Together, every day – and he had never once mentioned it.

He nodded, and then stepped forward until they were within arms' reach. "You'd been out with my son, Sam. You then moved on to the American. I didn't realize, before you were ill, how deeply I felt. It wasn't until I talked with Farnetti when you were in hospital that I realized how jealous I was of him. When you broke it off with him, I… I've never known that kind of relief. You don't know."

"I do know. I just felt it moments ago when you admitted to having feelings for me. I thought I was doomed to love someone who would never feel as I did about him." She couldn't help the tears and turned away so he wouldn't see them. But he had. She felt his arms encircle her, the warmth of his chest against her back, cocooning her against the cool night air.

"I do love you, Sam," he quietly murmured into her ear. She felt another bout of tears coming, but then he continued, "But the fact still remains that I'm twenty-five years older than you. You're the same age as my son… and he's married, already expecting my first grandchild."

"Is that supposed to make me forget how I care about you?" she asked passionately. "Does it really change your feelings for me? You've had them all this time, so has the thought of our age difference changed them somehow?"

"No."

"Do you really think that if I were to marry someone else that you would stop loving me or I would stop loving you?" She lifted her head, tilting it to look him in the eyes. His mouth was only a few inches from hers, and he had to resist the urge to kiss her.

He sighed, "No."

"No, we wouldn't," she affirmed. "As my mother was so apt to tell me when I was younger, 'the heart wants what the heart wants' and there's no use fighting it."

They stood in the moonlight, staring out at the stars. He pulled her closer, gently rocking her until her tears finally subsided and she sniffled. "Sa—"

"Did you know that Ms. Pierce was married?"

She could feel him shake his head.

"Well, she was. He was thirty years older." She let that sink in a moment before she continued, "He passed away just before the start of the war. He was eighty-eight."

He began to rock her gently again, in time with the music from the ballroom. "What would your parents think, Sam?"

"They'd be… concerned, but would come around quickly."

"Sam, really? You think they'd—"

"I did say they'd be concerned. There'd probably be a hundred questions, but they'd understand once they saw how we felt." She smiled, remembering her parents' story of how they met. "You know, my father is fifteen years older than my mother."

He chuckled. "Well, I guess that's enough for me."

She pulled away and swirled to face him. With a look as serious as if they were discussing a murder, she asked, "Do you mean that? That we'll give it a try?"

Just as seriously, he grasped her face with both his hands and said, "No." She started to pout until he continued, "I meant that we… should… get married."

Her eyes darted furiously back and forth over his face, and then she smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck and cried out, "Yes!"

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><p>AN: Part II is written by emma de los nardos.


	2. Chapter 2

Written by Emma de los Nardos

A continuation of Treva Rea's "At Long Last."

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><p>Many thanks to Dancesabove for her help with proofreading and editing. And thanks, of course to Treva Rea, for letting me finish this part of the tale. I liked the first part so much that I suggested collaborating with her, and she kindly let me take over.<p>

~Emma

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><p>At long last, he kissed her. There, in the garden, not yards away from the other guests at the gala, he pressed his lips to hers and heard her gasp in response. Foyle closed his eyes, touched beyond words by the miracle that this woman—<em>not just any woman, <em>_**Sam**__, he reminded himself_—loved him back. Not only did she love him, but she had agreed to _marry_ him. Foyle suddenly felt younger, brighter, at ease in his skin for perhaps the first time since the beginning of the war. Kissing her had been on his mind for so many years, that when he finally touched her he felt a surge of delight almost like that a child might feel upon receiving a much-desired Christmas present. In heels, she was exactly his height, and easily and comfortably returned his kisses, breathing heavily as she did so. Tears were still wet on her face and she didn't know whether to pull away to start crying again, or lean further into his kisses and comfort herself in their warmth.

Sam chose the kisses, moving her body closer to Foyle's, allowing his arms to wrap completely around her waist. For an instant, he reminded himself that they were not so very far away from the hall; they might be seen. Then again, they were going to be married soon—_the sooner the better,_ he thought—and there was no way to entirely avoid the gossip that a wedding between a former detective chief superintendent and his female driver would cause. Nevertheless, it seemed prudent to take themselves to somewhere more secluded.

"Can we go somewhere else, Sam?" he asked her, pulling away slightly. "There is so much to say—so much to talk about—I don't know if you—" She cut him off.

"My thoughts exactly, Christopher!" she whispered. "I won't be able to concentrate on another minute of this gala if we stay here." She thought for a minute. "Where are you staying? At a hotel? Perhaps we might go there, have a drink, talk things through."

"I'm staying with my brother-in-law and his wife." She frowned. "We can't go there; not yet, Sam."

"Did you know, my flat is owned by Whitehall?" she said suddenly. His eyebrows rose in curiosity. "Yes, all the intelligence personnel live in Whitehall buildings. They _do_ monitor who goes in and out, but there are no rules about curfew or whom I can bring home. If you don't mind, we could go there. I have a small sitting room—you would like it, I think. It's not much, but compared with the billets I put up with in Hastings, I should say that it is the very lap of luxury."

"I'd like that very much, Sam," he reassured her. "How long will it take us to get there?" They began to walk back to the gala.

"A short cab ride," she answered.

"That won't be necessary," he said. "You see, I brought my car. Would you care to drive for a change?" he asked, noticing the glimmer in her eyes.

"Would I care to drive?" she echoed back. "No, I _couldn't_. Not tonight."

"I can't go anywhere without you, you know," he reminded her. She stopped walking and stared at him.

"What did you say?" she asked, looking somewhat alarmed.

"I can't go anywhere without you, Sam," he repeated, smiling fondly at her.

"You said that to me before," she said, putting the pieces together. "When I was sick from the Anthrax and you visited me at hospital."

"At the crossroads," he reminded her. "You wanted me to tell you how important you were to the team; whether your contribution mattered at all. I needed you to know that you _were_ important, to the team of course, but also to _me_, personally. I didn't know if you would understand what I said as a confession, but I believe it was. At the time, you smiled and leaned back into your pillow. I had never seen you so happy. That gave me hope."

"Really?" she asked, surprised and delighted that he had put so much thought into what had passed between them at that time. For her part, she'd had felt so comforted by his presence at her bedside at hospital. She could have almost pretended that he was her lover, and not her boss, passing a vigil at her side. Later, when she learned how Foyle had combed the county looking for someone who might have the cure to Anthrax, she tried to convince herself that he was only doing what he would do for anyone in his service who became ill.

They continued walking, this time to the entryway of the hall, where the valet was stationed. Foyle asked for his car and a young man said that he would pull it around shortly.

"How will Ms. Pierce—or should I say _Mrs._ Pierce?—feel about you and me leaving early?" he asked her.

"I don't think we're the first guests to do so," she said mischievously. "Besides, I shouldn't be surprised if she knew this might happen." He raised an eyebrow.

"Really?" he said. "Ms. Pierce undoubtedly has keen powers of perception, but—tell me, Sam, what makes you say that?" He was somewhat amused to think that someone else had seen through the professional nonchalance that he had cultivated towards Sam for all those years.

"I am not normally invited to these kinds of dinners—not that I felt unwelcome here, but… I wouldn't have come if Ms. Pierce had not insisted. She told me that I was looking too pale and spindly, thought it would do me some good to get out and dance. She asked me if I always liked to work so late, and if that is what I had learned in Hastings." Sam blushed. "I told her that I would come, to please her."

"You don't know how glad I am that you _did_ come," he said. "Funny thing is…I wasn't going to come, either, but I was visiting my brother-in-law, and then a few days ago I was walking along the Strand, and—perhaps not coincidentally—bumped into Mrs. Pierce."

"Oh, she's _lovely_," Sam said. "You wouldn't think it to look at her, but just _think_—she knew about us, before _we_ even knew." She slipped her hand into his as they watched his car pull up in front of the portico. Out of habit, she went to open his door for him, but he stopped her.

"Allow _me_ to do the honors, just this once," he said, opening the passenger door and taking her hand as she climbed in. He went around to the other side and stepped in. The car smelled sumptuously of leather and musky cologne. Sam leaned back into the comfortable seat as she watched Foyle start the ignition. He noticed her watching him.

"I _do_ know how to start an engine, you know," he said in mock seriousness.

"I'm sorry—I know you do," she said. "What I could never figure out was why you needed a driver for all those years."

"Really? You haven't any idea?" he asked her, pulling the car forward and out into the lane.

"No," she said. "For a long time I thought it was because you didn't know how to drive, but then, when it came down to it, you managed to get Edie to hospital without a hitch. I've been wondering about it ever since."

"It started out as a bit of a whim," he said. "It was a request that I could make to my superiors, one that I knew they could not reasonably turn down, given my rank." She nodded in understanding and he continued. "You know the kinds of paper-pushing games we officers play with each other… The commissioner wouldn't approve my transfer to the war office, so he had to give me something else to placate me. In this case, it was a driver that I asked for. Just because I knew that it would be an inconvenience for him to find one in war time, and I wanted to make him work a bit for all the trouble he had put me to." Sam laughed. "Yes, that's too often how it works in the Force," he explained. "But he was clever about it, sent the request to the MTC—not usually done, you know—thinking I'd send a girl right back where she came from—he knew my sense of propriety—and then I'd only have myself to blame for being without a driver. But then _you_ came, and you were so eager, standing to attention and saluting me there in my office. I was shocked. I know I didn't hide that very well, but I also didn't want to hurt your feelings. It wasn't your fault that you had been sent instead of a man. I thought I'd figure out a way to send you back later, but I never did."

"I'm so glad you didn't!" she said. She'd had never known why she had been assigned to drive him, and now she knew. It touched her that he was concerned, even then, of hurting her feelings if he sent her away too quickly. She also remembered the irritation he had displayed towards her on their first car ride together, when she had not been able to hold her tongue and had asked him all manner of questions about the case and detective work. But, even with his annoyance, he had not asked her to leave. In fact, he had _never_ asked her to leave. He'd had thought he would let her stay a week, but a week turned into two, weeks turned into months, and months into years. Now, they were here together again, in a different car with a different driver, beginning the rest of their lives together.

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><p>Sam remembered all of this as she lay in bed, still scarcely able to believe that Christopher Foyle was sleeping at her side. An invitation to the police gala had ended with a marriage proposal from a man she had believed was still in America, and the night had ended with both of them together in her flat, sharing her bed and their bodies for the first time.<p>

She began to review in detail what had happened the night before, though the memories made her blush and she hoped that her companion would not awaken right away, so that she could be alone with her thoughts for a while longer yet. She stretched her toes and arched her back, relaxing into her body as she thought about how they had arrived at her flat and shared tea together, before sitting down on the old sofa and kissing like a pair of sixteen-year-olds.

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><p>It had felt illicit and thrilling to be kissing her former boss, after spending so many years at his side. He kissed well, too, knowing just how much pressure to use to get her to open her lips, knowing just how to move his tongue between her teeth to tangle with her tongue. They were so nearly the same height, his frame merely wider than hers was, and she took an unexpected delight in the <em>rightness<em> of being with someone who felt like her physical match.

Her body tightly clinging to his, she was able to explore his neck and back with her fingers, and noticed how he caught his breath when she brushed the outside of his ears with her lips. She drew one ear into her mouth and he nearly shuddered in shock and arousal. Sam shifted slightly, moving onto her knees and looking down into his face as she kissed his forehead, tiptoeing kisses down his face to meet his lips again. He grabbed her waist and pulled her closer to him, so that she straddled him with her legs. Her new frock had a voluminous skirt, nothing like the narrow pencil skirts that she had worn during the war. She sat on his lap, her knees pressing into the cushions of the sofa, and spread the purple fabric over both of them.

Foyle softly rubbed his fingers against her hipbones, looking up into her eyes. Her breasts were just at his eye level now, and he was enchanted by their firm roundness and by the mark of her nipples under the thin fabric of her dress. Foyle loosened his tie and removed it, folding it carefully over the back of the sofa. She reached to help him unbutton his starched collar, darting her hand quickly through the opening to touch the soft hair at the top of his chest. He leaned back into the sofa again as she brought her hands up to cup his face, kissing him again. He pulled her down so that she knelt lower on his thighs, bringing her face back to his level again. They kissed some more, enjoying the intimacy of the gesture and the newness of each other's bodies.

Sam's body felt electric; his touch was energising, and she wondered how she would ever be able to get to sleep after he left. _If_ he left, that is. A thought crossed her mind: _What if I asked him to stay?_

"Sam," he had said between kisses, "I should go now, before—" he tenderly pushed her away from him, looking into her brown eyes.

"_Must_ you go?" she asked with a pixie grin.

"Afraid so," he said, reaching for his tie.

"And if I asked you to stay?" she ventured.

Foyle froze. "Sam—you can't mean… No, it's better that I should leave now."

She frowned at him.

"Don't worry, we can see each other tomorrow," he said.

"I can't think of any reason why you shouldn't stay," she said, reaching for his face again. She placed her mouth over his and began to kiss him, slowly and then passionately, waiting for his body to respond to hers. He began to breathe heavily and she felt a jolt of self-satisfaction at her ability to arouse him. "See how much I want you to stay?" she asked him between kisses. "I _promise_ you I'll make it worth your while," she teased. Foyle sat back again with a sigh.

"It's no use saying no to you, is it?" he asked with fondness.

"No," she said, smiling. "You always _have_ let me have my own way. You've spoiled me."

"Don't I know it!" he retorted. "And haven't I regretted it, too! The places I've let you go—I wasn't much good at keeping you from danger, now was I? The bomb scare, the Anthrax…thank God nothing worse ever happened." He shivered, remembering the narrow escapes they'd had.

"You kept me from the biggest danger of all," she said, pointing a finger at his chest. "_You_."

He closed his eyes. "Am I really that dangerous?" he asked her, teasingly. "I rather thought that I had behaved myself with you, all these years."

"I had better not say how many times I nearly ran the Wolseley off the road because I was so distracted by the cut of your waistcoat under your jacket."

"Really?" he said, arching an eyebrow. He felt quite smug that she had noticed the care he had taken with his suits.

"Really, _sir,_" she said coquettishly, leaning in to continue their kisses. "But the _real_ danger, I think, was that I might let slip how I felt about you."

"How _did_ you feel about me, Sam?" She sat down comfortably on his lap, her arms wrapped around his neck.

"At first, I thought it was just a schoolgirl crush. I kept reminding myself that you were, as you put it, old enough to be my father. And then when you suggested that I take Andrew out, I thought you were trying to tell me that he would be a more appropriate match for me."

"Which he clearly wasn't," Foyle said. "You don't know how much I regretted that too, Sam. Someday I'll tell you the words I had with him once he came back from Debden."

"It's not entirely your fault," she said. "And just think: if he _hadn't _written me the letter, I wouldn't have started to date Joe Farnetti, and you wouldn't have been so jealous."

"Yes, I couldn't very well be jealous of my son after setting the two of you up together, now could I?" Foyle laughed. "But I certainly could feel jealous _for_ him, seeing you dancing the jitterbug with that American!"

"When Andrew was away, you were the one who took care of me, you know," she reminded him. "Sometimes I wondered if I really _wanted_ him to come back—not that I ever wanted anything to happen to him," she hastened to add. "It's just that, when he was away and writing to me, you were quite... how shall I put it –_solicitous?_–towards me."

Foyle smiled and caressed her cheek. "It gave me an excuse to check up on you, to ask you about your own life."

"Yet you pretended you were doing it for Andrew's sake."

His eyes were tender. "Yes."

"I suppose I was safer with Andrew writing to me from North Essex, than with Joe haunting the station house with his doughnuts."

"My thoughts exactly," Foyle admitted. "Though I did want to wring Andrew's neck when I found out that he had abandoned you!"

"Did you really?" she bantered. "You weren't relieved? I was so worried that you would think I was stepping out with Joe behind Andrew's back. That's why I had to come to you and explain everything."

"I know, Sam," he said, stroking her temple. "You don't have to explain anything to me now."

"In some ways it feels as if it happened ages ago," she said. "But then I think about how much I wanted to dance with you at the American party, and it all comes back to me, when I'm sitting here with you. Getting a dance with you tonight was the fulfillment of an old wish of mine." She tilted her forehead against his and sighed. It made her so happy to be with him, like this, that she sounded positively giddy.

"Indeed?"

"Yes!" she said, pulling back and laughing. "You don't know how much I feared that you'd have two left feet!" He joined in her laughter.

"I'm glad I put that suspicion to rest tonight," he said. "Was there anything else you were concerned about on my end?"

Sam blushed.

"I _can_ provide for you, Sam," he assured her. "I haven't told you yet, but the reason I came back to England was that I have been offered a position at Whitehall. That, and I have my pension from the police force. We'll be set for quite a while. More than set, in fact."

"Oh, that's _marvelous,_ Christopher! You can be here in London—with me."

"I couldn't go anywhere else," he said mischievously. "And I want you to keep working, too, if that's what you wish."

"Yes, I _do_ want to keep working. I am learning so much from Ms. Pierce—different things, of course. It's nothing like police work, actually." She did not want to imply that she had learned nothing under his command.

"Of course. I'm glad to hear it. Perhaps there will be a place for you in Whitehall in the future. One never knows. But now, Sam, tell me: how soon can we be married? I'm not getting any younger…" She swatted at his hand, which had crept around her waist and was inching lower, towards her bottom.

"I don't want to wait any longer than absolutely necessary," she said breathlessly. She hoped that he would get her meaning.

"In a few weeks, then?" he asked. "Do you think your family can come down here for a change?"

"A London wedding would be swell, but I think they would prefer to have one of their own marry us," she said. "Uncle Aubrey would be delighted to perform the service." She paused. His hand had moved back to cup her derriere and, this time, she did not object. "But I was hoping that we wouldn't have to wait so long…"

"I've been waiting for six years," he reminded her. "Another few weeks won't matter."

"Exactly—six years! But I disagree very much. I simply can't stand to wait _another minute_." She glanced sharply at him, hoping he would understand her meaning now, unless he were being deliberately obtuse. Just in case, she pressed her hips more closely against his, waiting for his reaction.

He was silent.

"Do I need to be worried in that regard, Christopher?" she asked softly. Perhaps he was holding himself back for some personal reason. She didn't know what it was like for men his age, though she would be very disappointed if he couldn't match her passion with his own.

Foyle laughed, somewhat bitterly. "God, no, Samantha. If this waterfall of a dress weren't between us, I think you would be able to perceive for yourself how I feel about you. I'm not so old as all that."

"But you _are_ older than I am," she pointed out. "And I simply can't stand the thought of wasting any more time. Who knows how long we will have together?" It was a sad thought, but she suspected that he had considered the same thing.

"Seize the day, eh?" he asked.

"I'd rather seize something else," she said boldly.

His eyes widened. "Samantha, I—" he began. She reached down to touch him between his legs. Underneath the soft cloth of his trousers, she could feel him stir as she gently massaged his cock. He caught his breath and exhaled sharply. It thrilled her to know that she could make him react in that way. Despite his earlier protests, he did not push her hand away.

"Sure you're ready for this right now?" he asked contemplatively. "We don't need to do anything tonight."

"I just don't think I can wait any longer," she said. "And from the feel of things." She pressed at him again. "I don't think you can wait much longer yourself."

"_That_ will go away eventually, Samantha," he said, after reopening his eyes. "But my respect for you will not change." He tried to move but she kept him pinned with her body weight. He was flattered that she was suggesting this, but also worried lest she think that he expected it of her.

"You can't say you don't like it," she countered. "I have the evidence right in front of us."

To her surprise, he did not protest further, but instead leaned his head back against the sofa with a moan as she continued to knead him through his trousers. He again closed his eyes, scarcely able to believe that it was Sam on top of him, Sam who had suggested that they consummate their love. Foyle had never been able to deny her anything that she asked from him, not even when it put her in harm's way.

"Sam," Foyle said, suddenly sitting upright again and grasping her hands in his own so that she could not touch him.

"Hmmm?" she asked. She had been studying his face, the way that it moved when she touched him, the look of relaxation that came over him when he was, finally, able to lean back and enjoy himself in her presence, without holding any of himself back. But then he changed his mind, suddenly, and pushed her hands away. Sam felt a sort of distance come between the two of them again, a feeling she had sometimes had when she had asked her boss to explain something about a case to her, and he had scolded her for her nosiness.

"Sam, I—we should talk," he said. "Before we do anything that either of us will regret later."

"I can't imagine regretting any of this, Christopher," she assured him. "As you said, it has been _six years._ Six years of stepping out with other men, while going to work at your side every day. Six years of wondering when you would stop regarding me as a little girl and start viewing me as a woman—" he started to say something, but she touched her finger to his lips to silence him. "Six years, Mr. Foyle."

Sam reached behind her neck and drew off the string of pearls that she wore, laying them carefully aside on a small table next to the sofa. Next, she unclipped the large, flat earrings that she wore, placing them next to the pearls. Foyle watched, fascinated by her graceful movements. Her neck was bare now and he thought about the many times he had wondered what her naked shoulders would look like, under the uniform. He had seen her in civilian clothes a number of times over the years, and each time had been surprised anew at her physical beauty. Now he admired her straight collarbones and noticed the row of freckles that dotted her left shoulder, how the slender strap of her dress crossed them. The other strap had fallen off her shoulder as she reached to put away her jewelry, but instead of adjusting it, she'd shrugged the left one off as well, looking significantly at Foyle as she did so. Her smooth shoulders looked golden under the soft lamplight. Foyle was transfixed.

"You wanted to say something?" she asked him, pushing her hips close to his again.

He swallowed as she planted a kiss on his mouth.

"Don't worry, _sir,_" she said. "I may have been waiting for _you_ for six years, but that doesn't mean I don't know how to do _this_." She bent down to kiss him again, moving her tongue quickly between his lips. He shuddered and swallowed once. Sam's kisses were intoxicating, at once suggestive of both innocence and experience. His eyes grew wide and she sat back to look in his face. "You didn't think I was a virgin, did you?" she asked, serious again. "I _knew_ you thought I was just an innocent child, but _really. _What do you take me for? A nun?" She laughed and threw her head back, seemingly pleased at his misconception of her.

"I—perhaps—I mean—I thought you might—one never knows these days…" _Damn, _he thought, _there's no good way to answer this question. _She smiled at his discomfort and he continued. "Sam, I want to marry you. Nothing else and no one else matters. Not anyone you have loved before, and not anyone whom I have loved either." She wrapped her arms around his neck and drew closer to him again, in a gentle embrace, moved by his words. They were starting their lives over, together, and what he said was true: it didn't matter whom they had each loved before. Now they would love each other, for the first time.

Part of him was relieved that this wouldn't be her first time with a man. He knew that it would be easier to make love to her if she'd had at least some experience, but part of him felt an irrational jealousy for the man who had taken her virginity. Then he reminded himself that Sam probably hadn't let anyone _take_ anything from her, in fact, it was more likely that she had freely given that gift – just as she was freely giving herself to him now.

"I want to marry you, too," she said. "Remember, I already accepted your proposal."

"I haven't thought of anything else since you agreed to it," he whispered. "I still can't believe it."

"You _shall_ believe it," Sam said. He watched her as she drew back and then stood to look down at him. She turned suddenly and sat next to him on the couch, her back towards him. He saw the curve of her spine and noticed how she was trembling slightly as her hands reached back to open the zipper at the back of her frock. She pulled it halfway down her back before her hand couldn't reach any farther and she looked over her shoulder at Foyle, who appeared eager to do the rest of the job for her.

"Can you help me?" she asked softly, sounding more vulnerable than he had heard her since she'd admitted to him, at the gala, how she had been in love with him and had waited, expectantly, for him to tell her that he did not feel the same. But he had not said it. He had not rejected her outright, and so she'd felt hope surge again, when the only protest he could give her was the difference between their ages.

Foyle sensed her vulnerability again, as she sat turned away from him, laying her back bare to him. He did not want her to feel ashamed of herself in front of him, ashamed of what she was offering without any hint of expectation on his end. So, Foyle grasped the zipper in his fingers and pulled it down to the small of her back, where it ended. He glimpsed, through the opening in the fabric, the pale satin of her slip and the lines of her girdle underneath it. He placed his hand on her bare shoulders, rubbing them slowly and tantalisingly as she leaned her head back and sighed. His hands drew down her arms, where the straps of her frock had fallen, and he pulled those down even further, helping her to slip out of them as he pushed the bodice of her frock down to her waist. She still had not turned around, waiting to see what he would do next. Her breath caught in her throat as she heard him, rather than saw him, unbutton the front of his shirt and remove it. The starched fabric made a soft noise as it hit the floor, followed by another garment that could only have been his undershirt, Sam surmised.

She felt his hands under her arms as he pulled her up from the sofa. As he did so, he leaned closer to whisper, "Stand up, Sam, and show me to your room." Instead, she stepped out of her dress and turned to face him, examining his bare chest with her wide eyes. Her stomach and breasts were gently outlined by her slip, and he could glimpse her slender legs, covered in silk stockings, peeking out beneath. He wanted to reach over and hold her, to put his hands all over her and feel the heat of her body through the thin undergarments she wore. But he noticed her staring intently at him, and Foyle felt self-conscious.

He had envisioned sweeping Sam off her feet, quite literally, and carrying her into the bedroom to place her on the bed, but he had realized in time that he did not actually know which door led to her bedroom, and rather than play the fool, he demurred to her. Of all things, he had not expected Sam to gaze at him as frankly as she did now, appraising him from top to toe. If he had been younger, he would have asked her jokingly if she liked what she saw, but at his age, he feared the response to such a question.

Instead, he watched her face intently as she gazed at him, hoping to discern her feelings in her features.

At last, she let out a deep breath and spoke.

"May I—can I—" she began, stammering. He smiled at her nervousness.

"Can you what?" he asked softly, amused.

"May I touch you?" she asked him, coming closer to slide into his arms. Her body was warm, as he had expected. She lightly placed her hands on his upper chest, closing the distance between the two of them. Her eyes met his with intensity before she looked down at his body, naked to the waist, his braces hanging from his trousers. It was not what she had expected, and yet was everything that she had expected: the grey hairs on his chest, the surprising breadth to his rib cage, the muscular arms and chest that she already discerned by the cut of his collared shirts and his waistcoat. He was not young, but he was hardly an old man. The smell of his cologne was familiar to her, but behind that was another scent—perspiration? arousal? – that she was not accustomed to. Which could it be? Her quick eyes noticed a few drops of sweat at his hairline. Her impeccably dressed boss, always a bit of a dandy, was actually _sweating. _

He stared back at her, still amazed that he was there in her flat, about to make love to a woman whose regard was the only thing he'd ever let himself hope to have. For all Sam's youth, Foyle considered that he had never loved another woman for so long and with so much constancy, apart from his late wife. He and Rosalind had married within months of knowing each other, and his other affairs had always begun and ended quickly. Apart from loving Sam, he'd never had the experience of loving in secret for so long and with so little expectation of love in return. Yet here she was, naked except for her underclothes, her hands moving down his bare chest and across his ribs, tickling and arousing him.

He reached down for the edge of her slip and signaled for her to raise her arms as he pulled it up and over her body, leaving her in her brassiere and panties and her wonderful, _wonderful_ garter belt and sheer stockings. Foyle _did_ love a woman in stockings! The wayward display of a garter clip holding up of the top of a stocking had been enough to nearly undo him on the spot, as a young man. More mature now, Foyle stood back to contemplate the sight. _How did I get to be such a lucky dog?_ he mused to himself.

"Do you like what you see?" Sam asked, not a little timidly. _So, I'm not the only one who feels shy tonight, _Foyle thought.

In answer, he pulled her face close and kissed her deeply, passionately, moving his tongue over her lips and dipping in between her teeth. At the same time, his hands stroked her back, moving lower to cup her bottom and pull her body into his, so that she could feel his erection between them. Sam gasped when his hands touched her rear, softly brushing the area under each cheek, and she almost fell backwards onto the sofa in surprise.

No one had touched her there before, in those secret places near the join in her legs. Her previous encounters with men had been hurried couplings in the hay and on the cellar floor, her clothes left on in haste, her body's pleasure ignored in the man's urgency. She had not lain with a man since she was a teenager, in those wild days back in Lyminster, when all she'd wanted was to thumb her nose at her parents and at all tradition. In retrospect, she thanked her stars that she hadn't got pregnant from Pete Hampton or Charlie Thwaites. Neither of her lovers had been anything to brag about to her girlfriends, and the experience of sex at a tender age was sufficiently disconcerting to leave Sam with a renewed appreciation for celibacy once she left her parents' home and moved to Hastings. She suspected, from comments that Joe and Andrew had made, that more than a few men were misled by her appearance of a vestal virgin, the untouchable woman in uniform, loyal to her country and to her boss.

At the time, she had felt a twinge of disappointment that neither Andrew nor Joe had behaved in any but the most gentlemanly fashion towards her. But Adam… now, Adam was a different story. She had put things off with Adam on more than one occasion, without knowing exactly why. Now, with Foyle's hands rubbing her bottom, over her hips, and then under her breasts down to her abdomen, she knew why she had refused the younger man. As much as she had told herself that it was pure foolishness to be in love with her boss, she'd still held out hope of his returning her love. At the least, she'd dreamed that he would touch her the way he was touching her now, firmly and yet considerately, reading her body with his lips and his fingertips. Sam felt ashamed that she had told him so readily that she was not a virgin, because she suddenly knew that, although she'd had sex before, _this_ was the first time a man would make love to her.

"Christopher," she whispered, caressing his head as his tongue explored her bellybutton. "Come back up to me," she said, pulling him up to kiss her again. They kissed for several minutes, their breathing growing heavier as they both became more aroused. Sam could feel the telltale moisture growing between her legs and felt a brief moment of panic at the thought that her panties might be wet through. _He won't care about that, _she had to remind herself. _In fact, I imagine things will be much better for both of us if I _am_ a bit slippery._ She nearly laughed at the idea.

Foyle pulled back to speak hoarsely, "Darling? Shall we go to the bedroom?" His blue eyes were direct, leaving her no room for equivocation.

"Yes, of course," she said, tugging on one of his braces to lead him.

When they entered her room, he noticed that her bed was not nearly as narrow as he'd feared. He also saw, on her bedside table, a framed photograph of the Hastings Police Department. _1941 or 1942?_ he wondered. He would ask later who had given the photograph to her. _Probably Milner or Rivers_, he mused. The same one had hung in his office while he was Chief Superintendent, and was one that he had taken across the ocean with him, to America. Sam was the only woman among the men. With her hat set at a jaunty angle and a wide smile on her face, she looked extremely pleased to be standing next to the Chief Superintendent. The photographer had urged them all to move closer together, so that they would fit in the frame. It was one of a dozen times that he could remember touching her, before this night. Her uniformed arm had pressed up against his side and he had been able to smell the violets of her perfume. He remembered the occasion because it was the first time that he'd been able to identify the scent, although it had filled the Wolseley when she picked him up in the morning and had lingered in his office long after she had left.

Sam sat down on the bed and patted the space next to her. But Foyle remained standing.

"There is one more thing I would like to ask you, Samantha," he said, quite seriously.

"What is it?" she asked, looking up at him. She prayed this would not be a long conversation. Already she missed the intimacy of his body next to hers.

"Um—it's rather awkward, actually—but would you happen to have any—_johnnies?"_

Sam burst out laughing, hoping it would cover her nerves.

"Did I hear you correctly?" she asked. Foyle looked away in discomfort.

"I didn't think it was a particularly amusing question, Miss Stewart," he said primly. But she caught the twinkle in his eye.

"Well, my answer to your question is: _No_. I don't _just_ _happen_ to have johnnies lining my dresser drawers. If I had known you were back in England, however, _maybe_ I would have managed to get my hands on some." She smiled at him. "But as it is, we'll just have to risk it."

He took a deep breath before speaking again.

"Sam—" he started. "More than anything, I want to marry you. I want you to be my wife. And when I asked you to marry me, I thought that we might have children—some day, I mean to say—if you wanted to, and if we were lucky."

"I would _hope_ we should be so lucky!" Sam blurted out. Relief washed over him. _She doesn't mind having my child,_ he thought. _She doesn't mind if something more comes of all this passion tonight than just our own satisfaction. _He brightened at the certainty in her voice. She continued softly, "Didn't you know I wanted to be a mother? But I don't suppose there's any reason why you should. It is not as if we had ever talked about such a thing."

He closed his eyes, moved that they were speaking of these matters. He had been a fond, if somewhat distant, father to Andrew, but he had always wanted more children. Rosalind was very young when Andrew was born, and they had always said that there was "time enough for more children"—except that there had not been enough time.

"If we have children soon, we should count ourselves blessed," she told him. "And if it happens tonight—well, why ever not? Just how soon did you say you wanted us to be married?"

"Er—" he stumbled. "A few weeks? However soon we possibly can." Sam smiled at his haste.

"A few weeks won't make much difference," she calculated. "Some babies arrive late, some arrive early. No one will say too much if ours is an early baby. Will they?"

"Nope," he said to her. He felt a queer tinge in his heart as he considered the import of what she was saying. Samantha Stewart was going to be his wife! What's more, she had said "our baby"!

"So, if that's settled," he said. "Perhaps we should—um—get to work at the baby business?" He cocked his head and looked at her expectantly.

"My thoughts exactly," Sam answered. "I can't wait another _minute_, much less a couple weeks!"

"What a rush you're in!" he teased as he lay on the bed, pulling her down with him. She turned to look at him and propped her head up on her hand. He caressed her collarbones, letting his fingers linger, ever so lightly, above her breasts. She cried out and shook as he slipped a hand underneath her bra and lightly twisted a nipple. Before she moved to lie on her back, Sam reached behind her and swiftly unclasped the hook on her brassiere, releasing her breasts into Foyle's busy fingers. Her pink nipple darkened as he continued to work it with his fingers and then, tentatively, with his mouth. Her gasp startled him, but he continued to suck at her breast, then worked his way up her neck to find her mouth again, covering the full length of her body with his.

The feel of his hands on her breasts, and then his body on hers, was indescribably sweet to Sam, the more so because she had waited so long for him. She could still hardly believe that he was back in England, much less in her bed, touching her! _If we had done this earlier, _Sam wondered, _would it have been so sweet?_

"Foyle?" she asked him in a low voice. He stopped kissing her and looked into her face.

"Foyle?" he repeated back to her, surprised.

"Yes, _Foyle_," she said. "I like that—_Christopher_ still seems rather—how do I put it?—unfamiliar? As if you were a different person."

"Hmm," he said, wondering to himself how he would have responded if, years ago, she had dropped the '_Mister'_ in front of his name. He couldn't remember the last time a woman had called him 'Foyle.' The casual use of his surname was something that he was accustomed to hearing from other men. But Sam's appropriation of the name sounded sultry, inviting—not sporty or casual at all.

"Can I ask you something?" she asked him, suddenly rolling out from under him and lying on her side to look at him.

"Anything," he said, stroking her collarbone lightly.

"Why me?"

His mouth twitched. "Why _you_?"

She nodded.

He swallowed before answering. "Because you were the best thing that happened to me since Andrew was born." Sam looked away, suddenly shy. "Because you cheered me up whenever a case was going poorly. You made me feel like I was doing something important with my work, with my life. I felt that I had something worthwhile to teach you. But then I realized that you had something to teach me, too."

Sam's eyes widened in curiosity. "What was that?" she asked softly, running her fingers through the soft hair on his chest.

Foyle sighed deeply. After so many years of trying to hide his emotions from her, it felt strange to speak honestly to her. "I thought that I had only one chance for love, and that was Rosalind, and she was dead," he said quietly. Sam looked him in the eyes and bent forward to drop a kiss on his lips.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "You must have loved her very, very much." The look on his face confirmed her statement.

"I _did_ love her, Sam," Foyle said. "And I think that I continued to be in love with her, even after her death—until I met _you._"

Sam blushed. "Truly?" she asked.

"Truly," he confirmed, taking her chin in his hands and kissing her deeply. His hands returned to her breasts and she lay back again on the bed, letting him return to the business of touch and smell and physical communion. Sam noticed, already, how skilled a lover Foyle was: how considerate, how gentle, how observant. The pleasure was getting almost too much to bear, the sensation in her breasts setting off corresponding feelings up and down and between her legs. She wanted to be completely naked with him, to feel that there was nothing left between the two of them. They had waited long enough.

Sam reached down to slide off his trousers, which she threw on the floor. Next, he removed her garter belt and stockings, pulling the silk carefully down her legs so that nothing would snag. Now, there was nothing in the way except his drawers and her knickers. Foyle moved closer to Sam, continuing to kiss her as his lower body settled between her legs, which she'd spread in anticipation.

The feel of Foyle's chest against her bare breasts was exhilarating to Sam. "Christopher," she cried between his kisses, "I—I—" Her words caught in her mouth.

"Yes, dearest?" he asked, pleased that he could finally use all of the pet terms of endearment that he had imagined saying to her. Before she could answer, he had slipped his fingers between her legs and rubbed at her slit through the panties. Sam let out an excited moan and spread her legs even further, encouraging him as she opened herself up to him. He dipped a finger underneath the cloth, probing the wetness between her legs before bringing two of his fingers up to stroke her little nub.

Foyle watched Sam's reactions carefully. Her eyes widened and her face gleamed with sweat and pleasure, as she tried to match the rhythm of his fingers with her hips. Her mouth looked strained and Foyle suspected that her mind had rushed ahead of her body, her desire still outpacing her physical reactions.

"Shhh," he said. "Lie still. _Relax_." Sam loosened the muscles of her hips and sank more deeply into the mattress, closing her eyes. While he touched her with one hand, making circles around her clit, his other hand removed his drawers. Sam reached down to do the same with her own, pulling off her panties with one motion as she brushed his hand away.

_Finally_, he thought, as he gazed at her naked body, t_his is what she looks like! _There had never been any doubt in his mind that Sam was a beautiful woman, but nothing that he had imagined could have come close to the flesh-and-blood woman who was trembling beneath him. He pulled back for an instant to look her over and thrill to the image of her body under his, her legs spread wide for his touch, her head lolling to one side.

"You are beautiful, Samantha," he whispered. "My Sam—" She jerked and cried out as he moved his fingers back into her opening.

"_Yessss,"_ she hissed, overcome by the feel of his hand inside and outside of her. "Don't stop—oh, please don't stop…" Her voice trailed off as his thumb continued to circle her nub and his fingers explored her folds and crevices. He noticed which kinds of strokes she liked, which movements left her breathless and which ones made her pull, almost imperceptibly, away from him, hinting that he should try something different. He could think of nothing else that interested him more than discovering how to excite Sam.

"Christopher," she started. "What about...?"

"Mmm. What about what?" he murmured, continuing his exploration.

"What about _you_?" she asked him, sitting up.

"Don't worry about me," he told her as he sat up himself to kiss her.

Sam pouted. "It seems hardly fair—_Sir —"_ she joked, "that I should be the one having all the fun."

Foyle hooted. "Do you really think you're the only one enjoying yourself around here?" he asked, looking from side to side as if he were checking to see if anyone else were in the bedroom.

"No, of course not," she said, leaning her forehead against his and looking into his eyes. "But what I mean to say is...I will be finished very soon if you don't stop what you are doing and I thought...I thought you might...might want me to do the same." She hoped that she was not being too brazen.

Foyle narrowed his eyes. "Now, _that_ would be a decidedly bad idea right now, Samkin," he said, guiding her hand to touch his cock. She grasped it firmly, looking up at him to make sure that she wasn't hurting him. "See what I mean?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"No, I don't, really," she said, puzzled. _Why did he say he didn't want me to touch him, and then brought my hand right there?_ she wondered.

He noticed her quizzical look and explained, "If you are ready, then I am too. If you keep up any more of that..." he glanced down at where her hand was toying with him, "then all the fun will be over before it even begins." She pulled her hand back as if she had touched a hot iron, and he laughed. "Don't worry," he reassured her. "I'm not going to go off like a bomb." She joined in his laughter. "Lie down again, Sam," he said, spreading her legs apart again and positioning himself at the join between them.

It had been a long time, for both of them. Samantha wondered if she would be too tight, wondered if he would notice that so much of this was new for her. She wished that she had not exaggerated her experience to him. Before he entered her, she asked him to wait a moment.

"Christopher," she said, "I want this so much."

"I do too," he reassured her. She looked down at his erection and he thought that she might be nervous. "What is it, Sam?" he asked, concerned. "Is this going too fast for you?"

"No, not at all," she said. "I just wanted to make this moment last—before we're together. I've never...I've never done it this way before." She bit her lip and he brushed a strand of hair out of her face. He was supporting his body weight on his forearms, but she could feel the heat of his chest where it pressed against her, and the rub of his thighs between her legs, so close that a small movement was all that was necessary for him to enter her. But he held back, waiting for Samantha to continue, entranced by the loveliness of her body and the tenderness in her voice.

"Never done what?" he asked.

"_Made love,_" she said. His eyes widened in confusion.

"Do you mean—do you mean that you're a virgin, Sam? I thought you said—"

She cut him off. "I'm not a virgin, Christopher, no, no." Sam shook her head and kissed him. "But, I've never _made love_ before, never been with someone whom I loved. So this is all new to me."

Foyle closed his eyes. He did not want to say that it was new to him, too, because he had made love to his wife for many years. But, as familiar as he had been with Rosalind, making love to Sam felt entirely different. He and Rosalind had been young lovers, had charted out the territory of their bodies together. This time, he was teaching someone else the art of lovemaking. That it was _Sam_ made the responsibility seem so much greater. He hoped that he could do her justice, that she would enjoy this as much as he already did.

"This is new to me, too, Sam," he said. She looked at him dubiously. "I am not the man than I was when I was married. This feels—_different._"

"I hope it feels good," she said, shifting slightly to redistribute his weight on her legs. He sensed the insecurity in her voice.

"Yes, it feels good, Sam," he said. "My love—may I—shall we—continue?" He reached down and touched her again between her legs. She nodded her consent.

She was moist, so moist that all he had to do was separate her lips and slip his cock into her. Briefly, he felt her muscles seize up against him in surprise, and then slowly relax to pull him in even further. A long, deep moan left Sam's throat as she arched her back and pressed against him. Foyle supported his weight on his forearms and looked down at Sam, brushing her lips with a kiss.

"I love you," he said. He began to push in and out, examining her face to make sure that he was not hurting her with his eagerness. She was wet and tight around him, a warm envelope for his most sensitive parts. To his surprise, he felt Sam reach down between them and caress his balls lightly, urging him to continue even as she aroused him further. He watched her eyes again and he pulled her hand away from him. He didn't want anything to distract her from _her_ pleasure at that moment. It was hard enough for a woman to come like that, without his fingers teasing her clitoris, and Foyle concentrated hard to restrain his own release so that he could give her pleasure with his steady thrusts alone. His patience was rewarded when, almost without warning, Sam's muscles contracted around his penis and she began to cry out his name, shouting, "Christopher—Foyle—Foyle—Yes!—Yes! Foyle—yesssss…."

Sam felt as if the entire world had distilled itself down to the space between her legs. She didn't care if the tenant next door could hear her. The only thing she wanted was to cry out her thanks to God that this man had appeared back in her life and, against all odds, had wanted _her_, loved her, desired her.

As Sam's orgasm subsided, Foyle felt his own begin, urged on by Sam's small yelps of delight and the jiggle of her breasts, which moved in time with his thrusts. She sensed the change in his rhythm and, as the pleasure rose up and out of him, he felt the tight clasp of her arms around his waist, pulling him even deeper into her.

It was some minutes before Foyle managed to still his breath enough to say anything to her. Gently pulling himself out of her, he rolled over and stretched out at her side. He stroked her breasts as they talked. Sam sighed and covered her eyes with her forearm.

"Oh, my," she said. "That was… _good_." She didn't dare tell him that it had never been like that before for her, with a man. The closest she had come to such a release had been when she had read her first Elinor Glyn novel, and had locked herself up in her flat to have her way with herself.

"Hmmm," Foyle murmured. "Good? Just _good?"_ She laughed and batted at his hand, which had begun to stray downwards again to tangle itself between her legs. She squirmed and moved away from his touch.

"Not yet," she said. "Not so soon."

He raised his eyebrows. Did she mean that they might have another go at it, later?

"So I take it you liked it?" he asked, his glance mischievous.

"Very much," she said. "Someday I'll tell you just how much."

He hmm'd again, wondering if making love had meant the same thing for her as it had for him.

"What's holding you back now?" he asked, curious. Sam covered her face with her forearm, turning away from him with what looked like embarrassment. He reached over and lifted her arm away, planting a kiss on her lips as he held her face in his hands. She looked up at him. "What's wrong?" he asked tenderly.

Sam made a noise like a whimper and he kissed her again. She was overcome with feeling and feared showing him how deeply she was moved by his lovemaking, even after what they had just shared together. Foyle sensed her anxiety and grappled for the right words to ease her fears.

"Darling," he whispered, "that was so beautiful. Thank you." He smiled at her and she smiled back.

"Thank _you_," she said, "for asking me to dance. That's what started all of this, right?"

"I think that it started much earlier," he reminded her. She nodded.

"Why did we wait so long to tell each other?" she asked, suddenly filled with regret for the lost time. Foyle closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to hers.

"I have been asking myself the same thing, Samkin," he said. He yawned and she copied him. It was late, and there was more to be said, but it could wait.

"Please stay here with me tonight," Sam asked him.

"I wasn't planning on going anywhere," he said, settling down next to her, his arm draped over her waist. "Is this comfortable?"

"Very," she said, sighing deeply with contentment. "You don't know how often I have dreamed about this."

"About as often as I have, I suppose," he returned, holding her closer.

"Goodnight, Christopher," she whispered.

"Goodnight, my love," he whispered back.

* * *

><p>Fin<p> 


End file.
